


The Poison of the Seven Seas

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Men Tell No Tales
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Disney Lets Jack Sparrow Fucking Die Already, Canon Rewrite, F/F, F/M, Humor, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-03-09 08:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13477194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: Henry Turner is determined to save his father from the curse that mysteriously continues beyond its destined ten years. He knows that the only man who can help him do it is Captain Jack Sparrow.Henry's in luck, since he quickly runs into Rosemarie, a sea witch who also seeks the lost pirate, and Carina Smyth, who just might be able to navigate their way with her knowledge of the stars.The only problem is, they're all about to be executed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The movie was so bad, guys. It was so fucking bad. I took some base elements and wrote my own damn movie instead.

“You shouldn’t be here, Henry.”

His father’s voice sounds as pained as it always does, when Henry manages to find him.

They alternate between sailing and settling, Henry and his mother. Always on the coast when they do board for a bit, when his mother can get work tutoring or they have gold enough from pirating to live off for a while. A pirate king his mother is, but she doesn’t want the same for him. So she tries. For his sake.

It’s easier on the water. Henry can sometimes see his father when he’s aboard a ship, (and these are sometimes legitimate, sometimes not.) If he’s lucky, if they make it through a storm and pass by the ones who don’t – that’s when he sees him. His father ferries the lost across the ocean to the end of worlds, as is his duty, and Henry gets to watch from afar.

“How else ‘m I supposed to talk to you?” Henry asks, sullenly.

His father looks older than the last time Henry saw him. For Henry, this is a troubling realisation. He is twelve years old, and suddenly terribly aware that the passage of time is inevitable.

“With letters. Like your mother does,” Father insists.

“Why aren’t you free of this ship?”

The question sends a shadow across his father’s face, and Henry steps back, suddenly remembering that his father, human as he looks, has no heart. His mother keeps it safe, but –

“Go home, Henry,” Father sighs, turning away.

“No!” The terror which seizes Henry at the sight of his father’s back is sudden and violent. “Mother won’t tell me anything. You were supposed to come home. Two years. Two years we’ve been waiting, and you broke her heart!”

 _That_ causes Father to turn his head.

“I never meant for this to happen,” he says finally, hoarsely. “You tell her that. Tell her that I’m sorry. Henry –”

A ruckus from below interrupts him. Father’s eyes widen, and wasting no time, he comes back to Henry, pulling out a knife. Before Henry can cry out, he cuts the rope binding Henry’s ankles to the rocks he’d sailed out on the boat. Then, standing, his eyes soften as he pulls Henry into his arms.

“You have to go, now, Henry,” he murmurs. “The crew don’t like special favours. I love you, all right? I wish I was able to see you grow. Tell your mother. Tell her I don’t know why it hasn’t ended.”

With that, he releases Henry, and stalks away. Without warning, the whole ship begins to sink beneath the waves once more, and Henry screams – but the force of the water pushes him back into his sailboat, bereft once more.

It’s dawn by the time he makes it back to shore. His mother is waiting for him, lines of anxiety etched into her face as she scans the horizon for him. Her clothes are getting shabby – they’ll need to go sailing again soon.

“ _Henry William Turner_ , I _told_ you _never_ to go sailing without me,” she shouts at him as he stumbles ashore.

“I had to see father,” he replies angrily, throwing down the rope he’s leading the sailboat in by. “And I did see him, and he told me the truth. The curse _isn’t_ broken. He’s stuck on that cursed ship, and neither of you know why!”

His mother looks as if she’s been slapped.

“You saw your father?”

She bends down, and grabs his shoulders tightly, furious with him.

“You listen to me,” she says firmly, “Your father is trapped, yes. Cursed since long before you were born. And it breaks my heart every day. But _you_ , Henry, _you_ are what I have left. You don’t go around seeking out your father without me, understand? Your life is your own and you can’t give it up chasing impossible hopes.”

“It’s not impossible. You told me – the others, the pirates, they’ve told me all about you and father and Jack Sparrow.”

“Captain,” his mother says, automatically, before slapping a hand to her mouth as if she can take the word back.

“ _Captain_ Jack Sparrow,” he repeats, and his mother shakes her head at him, already softening in her anger. “You released Calypso, the sea goddess. You fought Davy Jones. You helped command the Black Pearl itself, and went to the world’s end and back!”

“That was a very long time ago, Henry,” his mother says, looking pained.

“But it wasn’t impossible, was it?”

His mother looks at him for a long moment, and he thinks he might have won. But then –

“I don’t want you hearing stories about Jack Sparrow, Henry Turner. We’re getting up a respectable life here. You deserve a chance to live it. Now come home, and get warm.”

He walks with her up the beach without saying another word, too angry with her to speak, but shivering from the cold. Well, he’ll show her. And father too. He’ll find Captain Jack Sparrow and release his father from the curse himself. Henry William Turner is going to do the impossible.


	2. Chapter 2

“My child. It is my sacred duty to ask whether have you anything to confess, knowing that you will soon face your god with all the sins of your mortal life lain before him, and that you are to be executed for the crime of witchcraft. In the spirit of this most holy of duties, I beg you to make your confession, and pray that God will forgive your sins upon this earth.”

The woman, dressed prettily in a blue gown that looks more expensive than not, sighs. Rosemarie watches on with a mild degree of interest in what she’ll say. After all, she’s made quite a bit of fuss so far about being innocent.

“As I have already explained multiple times, father, I have no confession to make, because I am not a witch. More importantly, witchcraft does not exist. It does not exist because magic is not real. I have been _quite_ clear on this point.”

Rosemarie snorts loudly, but the woman does not look over, keeping her gaze fixed steadily on the priest before her. Rosemarie glances down, and notices that the woman appears to be picking the lock to her cell right before the priest’s eyes. _Interesting_.

“I am a scientist. A learned woman. I will apologise for neither of these qualities which, as any student of the new enlightened world will tell you, are essential to understanding the inner workings of our world, our bodies, and the stars. If you must take confession, then let me say this: my name is Carina Smyth. I am a student of science. Although I may be guilty of many sins, witchcraft is not one of them – and neither is education.”

 _Well, she’ll be in for a rude shock when the world beyond this one comes for her, then. But that may not be today_ , Rosemarie thinks, realising that Carina appears to have completely unlocked the door, while the priest _still_ continues to stare at her in disgust.

“May God have mercy on your soul,” the priest whispers, horrified.

Carina makes no reply. The priest walks to Rosemarie’s cell next, but she doesn’t move from her reclined position against the rough stone wall, though it’s begun to scrape her scalp something terrible. No point in showing deference to a god she does not worship.

The priest clears his throat. Rosemarie doesn’t look over.

“My child. It is my sacred duty to ask whether have you anything to confess, knowing that you will soon face your god with all the sins of your mortal life lain before him, and that you are to be executed for the crimes of witchcraft, pagan ritual, deviancy, theft, conspiracy, and – erm, failure to report an animal under your care. In the spirit of this most holy of duties, I beg you to make your confession, and pray that God will forgive your sins upon this earth.”

Rosemarie sighs.

“I did all of the above and more, father. What difference should it make now?”

“You ought to pray,” the priest sniffs, barely able to hide his repulsion of her, “for mercy, and for forgiveness. Come now, my child. It is my sacred duty to hear you.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Rosemarie says, with a single raised eyebrow. “If I were you, I’d’ve been paying more attention to the lady before me.”

“What?”

Rosemarie inclines her head to the cell beside her.

The priest looks over at the empty cell, its door ajar, with his mouth hanging open in shock for several seconds.

“ _GUARDS_!” He shrieks, before sprinting away.

Rosemarie doesn’t even have it in herself to laugh. She settles in to wait for her now delayed execution with nary an attempt to feel anything but relief in it, pushing back against the rough wall and closing her eyes. It’ll come soon enough, and then she’ll be free of this world and all its misshapen morality.


	3. Chapter 3

Carina Barbossa Smyth runs as fast as she’s able despite her voluminous skirts, and curses the fated lot of her sex, not for the first time, that they’re forced to dress as stiffly and inconveniently as this. She pauses to catch her breath in a backalley that sits between a large, evidently popular dressmaker’s shop, and a much older and grungier bookseller’s, anxiously peeking her head out to wonder whether she ought to risk getting lost in the considerable crowd for a bit. Before she can wonder too long, though, her eye catches on a sign in the dingy alley-facing window of the bookseller’s –

_NO WOMEN_

_NO DOGS_

Well, then.

No one will be looking for her in there, will they?

Glancing around, she ascertains carefully that there are no guards nearby before she surreptitiously makes her way to the doorway, a few steps from her spot by the corner of the building. The door is a dark, dirty red, and the same sign banning women and dogs hangs upon it – which irks her more than it should, considering that she’s on the run from the law. Nevertheless, she enters quickly, before her distinctive blue dress can be spotted, and thanks her lucky stars that the place was open as the door closes behind her.

Inside, the overwhelmingly dusty and slightly mouldy smell of thousands of old books is nothing compared to the sight that greets her – a great telescope, pointed towards the skies, where bright sunlight filters in from a huge rooftop window. Her breath catches in her throat at its magnificence – on the run she may be, but she can still appreciate a beautiful piece of engineering such as this. She moves towards it almost in a trance, and dares to carefully examine its parts, admiring the solid metal and gilded detailing. No wonder the owner of the shop doesn’t want dogs in here – too much risk of a ruined treasure.

That doesn’t explain the thing about women, though.

Next to the telescope is a map of the stars, carefully plotted on a large piece of vellum, as precise and intricate as the maps contained in her book. Suddenly remembering its existence, Carina gasps and pats her chest desperately, hoping it’s still there. Thankfully, she can still feel the protruding ruby near her stomach, and she sighs with relief.

But there’s something else, something wrong. She frowns, and it takes her a moment to parse her instincts, but – yes, there it is. The telescope and the map are _off_ , somehow. It only takes her a few moments, glancing back and forth between the settings of the instrument, and the star map, to figure it out. Whoever programmed this telescope was two degrees away from perfection, unfortunately. She corrects the settings, and is satisfied, smiling upon her handiwork.

“No! No women in the shop! I say, what on earth are you doing! Keep away from that!”

The voice makes her jump, and she steps away from the telescope guiltily, knowing she should have been paying more attentions to her surroundings. The man who appears from the balcony to her left has a face like a distressed weasel, so Carina does her best to appear normal and distinctly un-criminal-like, lest he call for the soldiers.

“Sir,” she explains, calmly, “Your celestial fix was off. I’ve adjusted it two degrees north – your map will no longer be inaccurate. Though – you will need to redo it, I’m afraid.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he stares in horror at her, before anxiously examining the telescope to ascertain her claim. When he realises she’s quite correct, of course, he turns back to face her, trembling. Carina waits patiently on the other side of the telescope for the man to recover his senses.

“You’re a witch!” he cries.

Carina sighs.

“Indeed sir, I am not. I simply intended to purchase –” she glances around, choosing the first thing her eye lands upon – “a chronometer! For the upcoming blood moon, you see. I shall pay you double for selling to a woman, I assure you.”

His mouth gapes open for a moment, as he shakes his head in disbelief.

“Witch!” he cries again, before raising his voice. “HELP! THERE’S A WITCH IN MY SHOP!”

Carina’s eyes widen, and she shushes him desperately.

“No, no, stop it! I simply wish to purchase –”

“Stay back, foul demon! This is a house of Christian faith!”

Carina grits her teeth.

“Then I pray I will be forgiven for this,” she hisses in reply, really meaning it, considering what she’s about to do.

And then she raises her leg and kicks the telescope, with all her might, crashing the end of it into the man’s face. He falls with nary a sound, and lies dazed upon the floor, blinking.

“I do apologise, sir,” Carina says, wincing, “but you see, we women of science must defend ourselves.”

Before the man can regain his senses, Carina starts for the door, but pauses just a moment, catching a glimpse of a fine sword held in the window. For display, no doubt, and yet –

She smiles, having a clever idea.

 

~

 

When Carina emerges from the bookseller’s shop, it is with a new pair of breeches to match her own stockings, a man’s waistcoat, which thankfully buttons over her bosom, and a comfortably warm overcoat with her diary safely tucked inside. Hanging from her side is the sword from the window, which she had to search for an appropriate belt to hold – luckily, there was one, in an upstairs drawer. She left the bookseller his shirt, hose, and wig. After all, he does deserve some dignity, given that he will be no doubt discovered in a most indelicate state due to his gag and rope. He wasn’t wearing a hat, but she discovered one hanging by the door, and though it’s a little too big, that’s all the better as it hides her face. She feels a little smug at her ingenuity.

Which is of course why she is spotted mere moments later.

 “Witch! There’s a witch escaped from the gaol! After her!”

_Damnit_. She should have brought a shirt and cravat after all.

Sprinting along the road, Carina quickly discovers that it’s much easier to move in her new clothes, which is a relief, as it seems half the British army is after her. She shoves women and men alike out of her way, who are too astonished to stop her, and leaps over a child’s play-cart with alarming dexterity – had she stayed dressed in her gown, she might never have thought herself capable of it.

She ducks into a backalley, hoping to lose the guards, but she hears one of them shout to others where she went, and curses between heavy pants for breath. Looking desperately ahead, she sees only the road on the other side of the alley – where, no doubt, she will be spotted in seconds, if they’re not planning on rounding her off already.

But then, in a moment of astounding luck, a carriage pulls up in front of the alley – with the door directly in Carina’s path.

Without hesitating, Carina throws open the door and climbs inside, slamming it shut behind her. The carriage rocks with her sudden weight, and her feet stumble below her as she bumps her head against the ceiling and falls right into the lap of a society lady.

Her eyes widen as she sees the astonished expression on the older woman’s face. She’s a petite one, with a strong nose powdered white and a wig which brushes the ceiling, giving her the vague air of an astonished bird.

“Good god,” the woman whispers, her hands hovering in the air, “have you come to rob me?”

“What?” Carina croaks, before remembering herself. “Erm, I mean – yes?”

The woman gasps, throwing her head back dramatically against the wall. Carina attempts to extricate herself from the woman’s skirts, realising she’s going to have to make a show of robbing this woman in order to stay in the carriage as long as possible – she can still hear the shouts of soldiers outside.

“Everything all right in there ma’am?”

The _driver_. Carina freezes, not having thought this far ahead.

“Quite all right, thank you, Carson!”

The woman calls out her response to him without hesitation, before returning her gaze to Carina with intent.

… Carina hasn’t even pointed a sword at her.

_What on earth is she playing at_?

“Are you … are you going to rob me now?” The woman sounds nervous, but her expression says otherwise.

Carina narrows her eyes, before pulling out her sword and pointing it, clearing her throat.

“Yes. Obviously. Erm, hand over your jewels and – sundries. Thank you,” she orders, awkwardly.

The woman is quick to pull off her earrings and necklace, placing them in Carina’s outstretched hand, before pulling out a purse and handing that over too. Carina isn’t exactly sure what to do next. The woman stares at her intensely, her bosom heaving in a way that almost seems exaggerated. Carina listens carefully, but she can still hear the soldiers outside, and her eyes flicker to the curtained windows.

“What will you do now?” the woman whispers, her hands against the wall behind her.

_Good question_. Carina focuses on keeping her expression as intimidating as possible, glaring at the woman in silence. It does not deter her carriage-mate, however.

“Will you … will you ravish me?”

Carina blinks, startled. The woman continues to breathe heavily, something almost _expectant_ in her eyes.

_Oh, good lord_. Carina’s stumbled right into the carriage of a bored merchant’s wife who has nothing better to do than read novels all day. And now Carina’s expected to play the part of the dashing rogue!

“I would never dishonour the wife of a man as prominent as your husband, my lady,” Carina says, lowering her voice in a covert manner.

“Oh, but he’s opening the new bank,” the woman explains, eagerly. “He won’t be expecting me for an hour yet.”

Feeling a little hysterical, Carina searches her mind desperately for an excuse as to why a brigand such as herself could never ravish a young woman of consequence.

“In that case …” she begins.

“Yes,” sighs the woman, leaning forward a little and closing her eyes.

“Perhaps your driver could take us towards the docks.”

“… Oh.”

A line appears on the woman’s face between her brows, and she knocks on the carriage wall behind her.

“To the docks, Carson,” she calls, disappointedly.

Carina, still holding out her sword, breathes a sigh of relief, and settles in for what will no doubt be a very long twenty minute journey, fraught with the advances of a very frustrated and very rich lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Randy housewives are a threat indeed. Please comment if you liked this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

“Your execution’s been delayed, witch,” sneers the man in the soldier’s uniform, rattling at the bars of the door. “Thank your lucky stars and be grateful, for you’ll be dead on the morrow.”

Rosemarie sighs, and turns her head away. What a shame. The girl’s – _Carina’s_ – daring escape has put off death another day. The man, sensing he will not get a response from her, gives her door one final rattle before stomping off down the stone hallway with a grunt. When he is gone, Rosemarie relaxes into a merciful moment of blissful silence. But, as usual, the peace does not last long.

“I beg your pardon, but – did that man say you were a witch?”

Rosemarie closes her eyes at the sound of the prisoner in the next cell’s voice. It’s that of a man, who was thrown in shortly after Carina’s escape and hasn’t said a word until now.

“That he did,” she replies, softly. “But I will not help you escape, my fellow prisoner, so do not ask.”

“Oh, no, I only – you see, I am seeking to break a curse. In truth I do not know that you could help me –”

Rosemarie turns her head against the grated door to narrow her eyes at the outstretched pale hand of the boy, stuck between the bars in greeting, since they cannot see one another at this angle. The solid stone walls between them prevent that.

“– Still, I thought I must ask. Given the situation, I mean. It can hardly get any worse.”

“It could,” Rosemarie comments. “My final hours could be wasted listening to a posh little boy prattling on about things of greater consequence than he can understand.”

“I do understand, madam,” he says, sharply. “More than you know.”

Rosemarie raises an eyebrow.

“Is that so?”

“It is, damnit!” She hears him slam a hand against his cell.

Oh, his heart is fierce. She can already tell. Despite her apathy, she finds herself wondering how he ended up in a gaol cell such as this.

“All right, mister. Tell me what you know. We’ve little better to do,” she says, coolly.

He hesitates, and she listens to his breathing as she toys idly with stray threads on her red petticoat.

“Have you heard,” he begins, “of the curse of the Flying Dutchman?”

Oh, wonderful. A superstitious sailor.

“Indeed I have. Captain Davy Jones was cursed to sail the seven seas, ferrying the dead across to the next world, able to set foot on land but once every ten years. And any sailor unlucky enough to drown in his waters would join his crew.” She rattles off the most well-known version of the myth, inaccurate as it is nowadays.

“But he no longer sails,” the boy presses on. “He is long-since lost to the ocean floor, for spurning the sea goddess Calypso and the sacred mission she charged him with.”

Now _that_ surprises her. Most sailors are not knowledgeable enough about the curse of Davy Jones to have been witness to the destruction of the man in question some twenty years ago. Rosemarie herself was not born at the time, and only had the truth from a skinny fellow with a wooden eye in an inn one night, many years ago, when she was still small enough to sit upon men’s laps in ignorance of their desires.

“Go on,” she murmurs.

“I know that he is gone,” he hesitates, “for my father has taken up the mantle of captain of the Flying Dutchman in his stead. My father is cursed – _was_ cursed, to sail for ten years and never set foot on land, in return for his life.”

“Is that what your mama told you?” Rosemarie laughs. _What a gullible boy_.

“No! I mean yes, but – I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the ship and lived to tell the tale.”

“Oh, let me guess, manned by a crew of the damned, covered in barnacles and seashells, miserable and cruel.”

“Actually, no,” the boy huffs. “My father did his duty. He ferried the dead for ten years just as Calypso intended. He and his crew were spared from the curse that befell Davy Jones when he shirked his duty.”

“You saw a merchant ship, then, and an absent father with no excuse.”

“A merchant ship, which rose from the sea floor in the middle of the night before my very eyes, and sunk back down again without a trace?”

Rosemarie narrows her eyes and tilts her head slightly, looking at the boy’s hands through the bars of his cell, stuck out in the hallway and pleading with her.

“That’s not all I saw, and all I know,” he says, determinedly. “My father did his duty. The curse should have lifted after those ten years had passed. But it did not. He could not come home – the ship turned away whenever he tried to steer for land, and the waters themselves lifted him back upon it when he was desperate enough to leap overboard. My mother and I saw it happen, when I was still a boy.”

“All right,” Rosemarie says, annoyed. “All right. Your father is the captain of the Flying Dutchman. Of course he is. Why should I care?”

“I want to break his curse. I am not so knowledgeable regarding matters of magic and superstition, for my mother refused to teach me when she realised I wanted to leave and seek a way to free him.”

“And where is your mother now? Abandoned, perhaps?”

“No, indeed – she has a good life as a merchant herself, though she sends others sailing more often than herself. But she would not let me go. I joined the British army, as a sailor.”

“How exactly was that supposed to get you knowledge of magic?”

“… It didn’t.”

Rosemarie snorts.

“At first.”

Rosemarie makes a noncommittal noise.

“Do you know why I am here?”

“I do not eavesdrop as often as you do, it appears, so no.”

“They brought me in on charges of mutiny and cowardice, but it isn’t true. I never wanted to mutiny. The captain sailed us all into the most terrible danger.”

“And you knew better, of course.”

“I did. On this occasion, I swear, I did. From my mother’s stories – I knew of the Devil’s Triangle, and the cursed ship which sails there, the _Silent Mary_.”

Rosemarie doesn’t start, because she’s slowly growing used to the idea that this boy is more unusual than he appears, but her ears do prickle at that name.

“I take it from your silence you are familiar with it, madam.”

“I am.”

“He came for us. The wretched, dead Spanish captain. I tried to warn the crew, but – they took my warnings as insult, and threw me in the brig for my trouble, and marked me as a mutineer. Not minutes later, a terrible darkness fell upon the ship. It … it had been such a clear day, before. And night fell in moments. I knew that the Spanish captain had come for us, for daring to sail too close.”

“The hubris of the British empire,” Rosemarie says softly.

For a moment the boy does not respond, and Rosemarie thinks perhaps he is angry at her for insulting his dead crewmates – for of course, they must be dead, if they ran afoul of the cursed crew of Captain Salazar.

“Hubris,” he agrees, finally. “I heard them die. The blood was so thick it fell through the floorboards …”

“Yet you went undiscovered?”

His silence now lasts so long that Rosemarie wonders if he’s lost patience with her.

“No,” he whispers.

Rosemarie pauses.

“Then, how …?”

“How am I still alive?” He laughs without humour. “I’ve been asking myself that.”

Rosemarie thinks she can hear him swallow.

“In any case. I was locked in the brig, unable to escape on my own. I simply prayed they wouldn’t discover me, but they were thorough – methodical. They went through every nook and cranny. Killed anyone they found. And there I was in the last cell. Waiting for my death. But as fate had it, the crew did not discover me – the captain did.”

“Captain Salazar himself?”

“Yes. His face … he was cracked and crumbling, like an ancient painting. He walked as if through water. And his expression, the way he looked at me – at us all, who sailed – we were like the scum beneath his boots. We were no better than – than –”

“Common pirates?” Rosemarie suggests.

The boy laughs unexpectedly, the sound of it edged uneasily with remembered fear.

“I suppose you could say that. But whatever he thought of me, he stopped his crew from murdering me. I think … He saw, amongst my possessions, something of interest to him. He whispered to me, I – I’ve never heard anything like it.”

Rosemarie’s done enough dealing to know when someone’s hiding something, and interrupts him.

“What did he find?”

“Pardon?”

“What did the Captain find with you, to make him stop? The crew of the _Silent Mary_ show no mercy. It is known across the oceans, at least by those clever enough to listen. What could possibly have leashed his rage?”

Rosemarie leans out a little more, straining to catch a glimpse of the boy’s face as he hesitates to answer.

“A poster,” he says, through what sounds like gritted teeth. “A wanted poster for the pirate, Jack Sparrow. As soon as he saw it, he just – froze.”

Rosemarie, herself, feels frozen too. Jolted to attention and needing _answers_ , beyond idle curiosity now. _How does he know_? If the boy has any inkling of what she’s done … Could that be the reason he’s telling her all this? _No, no, he’s just a boy_. A nobody sailor with the British navy. He can’t know to whom he speaks.

She forces her voice to remain calm.

“What did he say to you?”

“He asked if I was seeking Sparrow. If I knew where he was. I told him that I did seek the pirate, but that I did not know his location. Nobody seems to know where he is – he hasn’t been seen in years. I sought him out for his connection to my father, I hoped he might break the curse – but, well. It doesn’t matter, not for this story. The captain did not like that. But in his agitation, he revealed to me that Sparrow was the cause of his – erm, his state of disarray.”

“That does not surprise me,” Rosemarie comments, though her voice remains stiff, despite her best efforts.

“Indeed,” the boy sighs. “But it saved my life, I believe. The captain leaned in and whispered that he would let me live, if I sought to kill Sparrow. And so that I might spread the tale of the Silent Mary. Why now, I do not know, when before he was satisfied to be known only to those who spend their whole lives at sea – but I swear it is the truth.”

“Do you seek to kill Sparrow?” Rosemarie is proud that her voice does not tremble. She tears at the loose threads of her petticoat, the sharp sting of it grounding her.

“… No, no. I told you. I want his help to break my father’s curse. I need him alive for that.”

“Of course,” Rosemarie says quietly. “My apologies.”

“No need for that,” the boy says, sounding mystified by Rosemarie’s sudden change in attitude. “I’m only telling you to explain how I came here alive. He let me go after that – he said nothing more. And then my rescuers took one look at my uniform and marked me a mutineer, so unfortunately for Captain Salazar, that was all for naught.”

“Unfortunately for him.”

“But – you’re a witch.”

And they’re back to that. Rosemarie resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“I am. And if I could break out of here, don’t you think I would have by now? And even if I could, why should I take a little boy like yourself with me?”

“Because,” the boy says triumphantly. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Rosemarie bursts into laughter, unable to help herself. She cackles for so long that the boy begins to protest sulkily, but she’s too surprised to find herself laughing at all to feel annoyed with him.

“Oh,” she says, finally, breathlessly, “You are a sweet one. All your stories of curses and the darkness and a hopeless quest for a washed up pirate, and you tell me that you believe there’s _anyone_ left in the world who does anything because it’s _right_. You’re sweet. I’ll give you that. How old are you, fifteen?”

“Nineteen, actually,” he answers, testily.

Rosemarie’s glad he can’t see her face, shocked as it is. The same age as her, yet such a gulf between them …

“Well, I can’t help you.”

“But – the curse,” the boy – _young man_ – insists. “Surely you must know about breaking curses.”

“I know much more about how to lay a curse than break one,” Rosemarie answers.

“Then help me find someone who does. Help me find another witch, or if you know no one, help me find Jack Sparrow after all. I have heard tale of him, that’s why I joined the navy when I did. An old sailor told me that Jack Sparrow is still seen in these waters.”

Rosemarie’s heart nearly stops.

“He is?”

“I think so. I – I’m sure of it.”

Rosemarie swallows, looks down at her hands. They have not woven magic in months. She doesn’t know if she still can, if she even should. Why give up a peaceful and quick death for the slimmest chance to right her wrongs?

“Tell me,” she says, softly. “What’s your name?”

“Henry,” says the boy, and there’s a tiny smile in his voice, like he can sense her wavering. “Henry William Turner, at your service.”

_Henry William Turner_. He gave her his whole name. And she can’t pretend he’s ignorant of the power of a name in the hands of a witch, given his knowledge of the arcane curses and even the very gods of the ocean themselves. He gave his name to her because he trusts her, without a single reason to.

“Henry,” she says, rising to her feet. “I’d advise you to stand back.”

“What?”

But Henry doesn’t get a chance to ask any further, because Rosemarie closes her eyes, reaches inside herself for the thread of power she was gifted with all those years ago, and throws it outwards, causing their shared wall to the outside world to crumble into pieces with an unnatural shiver through the stone. She opens her eyes to the destruction and thinks, _Not bad_. Not bad at all considering how out of practise she is.

“Good _god_!”

Henry certainly seems to think so.

Rosemarie climbs carefully over the rubble, and blinks as she steps into the weak sunlight which has made its way into the backalley of the goal, coughing a little from the dust. Behind her, she can hear Henry stumbling along as well. She turns to ask him if he’s all right, but stops short when she sees his face.

_Well_. That’s not the face of a young boy at all. _If he weren’t so righteous he’d probably make a good molly boy, actually_. She shouldn’t tell him that, though. He’d see it as an insult.

“Come on,” she calls, as he wheezes and dusts himself off. “We’ve got a lot to do, Mr. Turner. And the guards’ll be here sooner rather than later, I’d wager.”

“Right,” he croaks. “Of course. Because you blew up the wall.”

“You asked for my help,” she says, simply.

Impatiently, she grabs his hand, and before they can be discovered, pulls him into the alleyways of the town with a renewed hope in her heart that she hardly allows herself to feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the Star Wars reference? :D


	5. Chapter 5

To say that Henry is stunned when the supposed witch next door reduces their shared brick wall to dust with a flick of her wrist would be an understatement. Admittedly, he’d been nagging her to do something for the past half hour, but he’d never actually expected her to be able to. He’d been running on fumes and last hopes – and the desperate belief that his mother’s stories about sea witches were true, that there were those amongst humanity capable of producing magick, rather than merely being enslaved by it, as his father has been. As even Captain Salazar is.

Those hopes have turned out to be founded. The witch – Rosemarie, she said her name was – has his hand in a vicelike grip as they alternately sprint and sneak through the town, the shouts of men quick on their heels, making the back of his neck prickle with fear.

“Where are you taking us?” He hisses.

“Docks,” Rosemarie murmurs, as they flatten themselves against a wall. She breathes heavily, evidently somewhat strained by her display of power. “We need a ship out of here. The crown won’t accept two escapes and three lost prisoners in one day.”

“Three?”

“The girl who was in your cell before you ran off. Quite clever of her, really. That’s why they delayed my execution – the whole damn army’s out looking for her.”

“Oh,” Henry blinks. “Perhaps we’ll run into her.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Henry Turner,” Rosemarie snorts. “If she’s got any smarts at all, she’ll be long gone by now.”

Henry frowns and isn’t sure exactly how to answer that, considering how much difficult they’re having sneaking around, when suddenly, a cry interrupts his thoughts. Rosemarie freezes at his side.

Outside their tiny alleyway, the bustling street seems to suddenly get noisier and busier, as a column of soldiers passes through.

“Over there, men!”

“They’ve spotted us,” Henry cries, strangled with fear.

But Rosemarie hesitates.

“No – look.”

Pressing his body closer to the wall, Henry dares to peek around Rosemarie’s head to see that the soldiers are headed straight for an incredibly fancy-looking carriage, which is stopped a few feet from the entrance to the alleyway. The carriage itself is shaking, and not a moment later, a slight man tumbles out one side and into the dust. He rolls to his feet, looking stunned, before spotting the soldiers coming towards him. His eyes widen, and –

And that is when he makes a beeline for Rosemarie and Henry’s hiding place.

“Oh no,” Henry mutters.

“That would be our luck,” Rosemarie says, flatly. “Come on – this way!”

They run back down the alley, their feet pounding on the dirt and kicking up dust behind them. Behind them, Henry can hear the other fugitive’s footsteps getting closer, and he speeds up. Now he’s the one dragging Rosemarie along, who keeps stumbling over her skirts.

“Hurry!” he cries, dodging a child playing at marbles on a stoop.

“I _am_ hurrying!” she snaps, but in the next moment, she finally trips with a cry of surprise and falls flat onto the filthy ground. Henry skids to a halt, immediately backtracking in order to help her up.

“Go!” she says, frantically, waving a hand at him. The other fugitive of the law is drawing nearer – there is nowhere else to go in this endless, skinny strip of road.

“Not without you,” Henry insists, holding out his hand, panting as he looks up through his hair to see if the soldiers have followed the foolish man chasing them into the alley. Henry grasps Rosemarie’s hand, feeling, despite himself, strangely curious about her callouses, and yanks her upwards. The fugitive is slowing to a halt before them, and as Henry finally manages to pull Rosemarie to her feet, he gasps.

“The witch,” he says, staring at Rosemarie with wide eyes.

“That’s me,” Rosemarie says, grimly, turning to the man with a sneer, and raising her arms to defend herself with her magick. But in the next moment her arms droop, and her expression melts away into surprise. “The scientist,” she murmurs, softly.

“That’s me,” the stranger says, with a firm nod.

“Who?” Henry can’t keep up.

“Henry, Carina. Carina, Henry. We’re escaping,” Rosemarie explains quickly, dusting off her skirt.

At a closer glance, Henry can see that the stranger he’d mistaken for a highwayman does indeed appear to be a young woman – this must be the previous cellmate, then, that Rosemarie had mentioned. She is – pretty, there is no other word for it. Delicate features, soft skin. Eyes that cry out to be seen, even in such an unglamorous disguise as this.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Henry says, nodding stiffly and formally.

“Under these circumstances?”

“Well … no,” Henry admits, feeling foolish.

“We’re looking for a ship,” Rosemarie interrupts. “The more the merrier if you can use all those brains to guide our way.”

Henry feels even more embarrassed for wasting time on pleasantries. He looks to Carina, who hesitates. She flicks her blue eyes between the two of them – Henry, bedraggled in his ruined navy uniform, and Rosemarie, covered in dust and thin with hunger. Finally, though, she nods – and not a moment too soon, for a shout at the end of the alleyway alerts them that the soldiers have discovered them.

Rosemarie grabs his hand once more, and in turn Henry takes hold of Carina’s. In the next instant, they are running, kicking up dust from the alley as they head towards the docks. Rosemarie drags them this way and that, but the soldiers are catching up with them – Henry can hear their distant shouts coming closer.

After twisting through several alleyways, each danker and dirtier than the last, they finally burst out onto a sunlit cliffside. Blinking in the brightness, Henry has no time to think before Carina tugs at his hand, pulling the three of them –

“To the scaffold!”

“Well, if it was up to me, I’d hoped to avoid the executioner, but I’ll take your word for it!” Henry pants, following her along to the hangman’s block, the sight of the dead men already hanging there leaving him queasy.

“Go, I’ll hold them off!” Rosemarie cries, letting go of his hand.

“Rosemarie –”

“Trust me, Henry Turner,” she grins, savagely, and he doesn’t have a chance to answer before Carina pulls him away.

They sprint for the block. It is a scaffold hanging over the edge of the cliff, from which dead men serve as the warning for pirates in the area, before they drop down, eventually, into the ocean directly below. A half mile or so away are the docks, which Henry very much hopes Rosemarie or Carina have a plan for reaching.

They haul each other up towards the ropes from which, strictly speaking, they ought to already be hanging. Carina lets go of his hand and immediately begins tugging at the noose nearest her, looping it around her hand. Unceremoniously, she drops the body hanging from it into the ocean. Then she stops, scouting towards the docks, seeming to make some quick calculations in her head.

Henry, staring, is startled by a sudden sensation – something he cannot put into words, almost like an earthquake, from the air itself. He turns to see Rosemarie, hands raised, chanting some ancient tongue, while the soldiers before her – the soldiers –

They bow before her, humble and lost to whatever magick she works upon them. The display of power stuns Henry momentarily, but then he sees the signs. The trembling of her limbs. The sweat upon her brow. The toll is too great for her to handle much longer.

“Come on,” Carina says, gripping his arm. “Grab a rope. We’re going to swing out towards the boats. If I have it right we’ll be able to commandeer the one at the end.”

She points towards a rather ostentatious looking ship at the closest end of the dock, but Henry doesn’t care.

“Not without Rosemarie,” he says, feeling his resolve strengthen. “She got me out. I cannot leave her.”

Carina makes an extremely frustrated noise.

“I have been through hell and back to get here, and I am leaving!”

“Then I’ll follow,” Henry says, firmly.

He sees her teeth grind as she contemplates his face. She glances behind him, to Rosemarie, but her eyes slide away again as a tiny frown appears between her eyebrows.

“Bloody hell,” she mutters. “Fine.”

With that, she grabs a rock from the ground, lobs it with all her might, and strikes a soldier directly in the eye.

“OVER HERE, FOOLS!” She shouts.

Henry blinks.

“That’s not exactly what I –”

“Let’s go,” she interrupts him, and he turns to see that whatever magick Rosemarie worked on the soldiers has been broken by Carina’s stone. The soldiers are blinking slowly, coming to, and Rosemarie is slumped where she stands, too exhausted to even try again.

Henry sprints towards her, swinging her arm around his neck before she has the chance to protest.

“What a gentleman,” she slurs, sarcastically.

“Do not thank me yet,” he mutters back, struggling to support her weight as they limp towards the scaffold once more.

“Henry!” Carina cries, as they draw near. “You’ll have to do it like this. Watch carefully, we won’t have another chance at it.”

“Understood,” he grunts, sweeping Rosemarie’s legs into his arms so that he can carry her entirely.

And watch he does. Carina takes the rope in her hands, swings back on the scaffold, takes a running jump, and _leaps_ , sailing through the air for several heart-wrenching seconds before splashing into the water below. For a few moments, Henry’s heart stutters, waiting for her to surface, but then a tiny figure appears in the surf – much nearer to the ship than he would have thought possible. He’s a strong swimmer and has no doubt he can follow her lead, but –

“Go on, then,” Rosemarie murmurs, weakly clinging onto him. “One of us should be free.”

“The three of us should be free,” he says, fiercely. “Or none at all.”

“I don’t think you’ll have much of a chance of that, mate,” she says, inclining her head behind him.

Turning, he can see that the soldiers are finally recovering from Rosemarie’s magick. One stumbles to his feet and looks to where they stand – and shouts for the others. Henry’s pulse quickens impossibly more, and he shakes his head.

“Can you cling to my back?”

“I think so,” Rosemarie confirms. “But you are quite insane, you realise?”

“I’ve been told I get it from my mother,” Henry sighs, before swinging Rosemarie round to his back, where she holds on tightly, seeming even now to be regaining her strength.

From there, he wastes no time in climbing onto the scaffold, and taking the noose of a dead man for his own, kicking the man into the ocean below.

“My apologies, sir,” he mutters, and Rosemarie laughs faintly in his ear.

He takes the rope in both hands, the soldiers getting closer all the time. Shouts fills his ears – _stop, mutineer! Betrayer! We’ll fire!_ – But he doesn’t heed them.

He takes a deep breath, runs forwards, and _jumps_.

For longer than he would have thought possible, he feels only the air, rushing through him, holding him suspended in a single instant. But the water comes rushing ever forth, and he braces himself for the impact.

Yet he is utterly unprepared when the cold water finally hits him, and the temptation to gasp is almost too strong to resist. Rosemarie is ripped away from him in an instant, and he panics before he surfaces, coughing and spluttering. He turns in the water, splashing about, looking for her – but finally she surfaces, as still as stone, floating on her back.

“Rosemarie! Rosemarie, are you all right?” He splashes towards her, uncoordinated in his worry.

“Fine,” comes the faint answer, after an instant in which his heart stops beating. “Conserving energy. Be a dear and drag me along?”

“Well, you two have finally arrived,” a flat voice interrupts from above. Turning around, Henry notices that the ship they had intended to commandeer is much closer than he expected. And it’s getting _closer_ too, Carina peering over its edge with an entirely unimpressed expression on her face.

“Carina?” Henry says, mouth hanging open like a fish. “How did you …?”

“Never mind all that,” she says, shaking her dripping head. “Come aboard. I’ll lower a boat.”

Within minutes, the boat is lowered, and both Henry and Rosemarie are being winched aboard.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am, madam,” Henry says, having regained his manners with a moment to think. “We owe you our lives.”

“Speak for yourself,” says Rosemarie, who is looking a little less pale, able to sit on her own now on the creaking bench of the sailboat.

“I’m afraid you may not owe her that,” a male voice interrupts, calmly.

“…Madam?” Henry squints up at the ship’s railing, but can only see Carina, her face carefully blank.

“That’d be _captain_ to you, my boy,” the voice continues.

A leering face appears beyond the railing, just as Henry and Rosemarie become level with the deck. A face that Henry has only heard of in his mother’s stories. A face that strikes fear into the most hardened pirates.

“Barbossa,” he whispers, horrified.

“Aye,” Barbossa replies, cheerfully. “And I’m afraid you three had better have a mighty fine explanation at hand for all of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm back!! Let me know if you're enjoying this <3


	6. Chapter 6

“Now, ye must realise, I’m more than prepared to kill ye for even thinking of attempting to commandeer my ship,” Barbossa says, with a glint in his eye that confirms yes, actually, he really would, and he’d relish it too. Carina curses herself _again_ for picking this ship.

“You would not dare,” the witch – Rosemarie – snarls, though the effect is somewhat ruined by the way she lists from side to side, exhausted.

“And why’s that, missy?” Barbossa laughs. After a pause and a gesture to the rest of his crew – who are gathered around, looking uncertain – the others join in. Carina rolls her eyes.

“You don’t recognise me, Hector? I was only a girl, I suppose, when we last met,” Rosemarie says, softly.

Barbossa squints at Rosemarie, a slip of a girl, nearly bald for her hair is so short, nearly fainting for all the energy she acts as if she exerted. She gazes up at him with a steely look in her dark eyes.

“… I’m afraid we haven’t met,” Barbossa says, stiffly.

“Then, Hector,” Rosemarie asks, voice as soft as a snake in the grass, “how did you gain this ship? This crew? Your jewels, and wigs, and powder? When we met, you were a pathetic drunk. My own father had to kick you out of the inn.”

Barbossa pauses, and Carina watches his expression carefully.

He smiles.

“He weren’t your father, dearie,” he chuckles.

“He were good enough.”

For another moment, there is only the creaking of the ship, and the rush of the wind off the ocean.

“Well,” Barbossa announces, turning to his crew. “Might be I do know this young lassie after all. But I still see no reason not to show these other young brigands the way of the sea …” He pauses for dramatic effect, and the crew shout encouragement.

“But – you know my father!”

Henry’s voice interrupts them. The young man who wouldn’t abandon his fellow prisoner, for all her nonsense about magic. Carina sighs. There’s one with too much honour and not enough sense, and no doubt about it.

Barbossa freezes at the sound of Henry’s voice and turns, gritting his teeth.

“Is that so,” he says, sounding irritated.

“It is – and my mother, too,” Henry says, eagerly.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Barbossa grins, lasciviously.

Henry turns purple.

“Not like that!” he exclaims, hastily. “Will Turner – and Elizabeth Swan. You knew them. My mother told me stories about you. I even – I saw you once, from afar. She was negotiating with you, on the bow of the ship, right in front of both your crews. For a ship’s prisoners. It was a female convict ship. She set them free. And you let her, and you laughed.”

Carina listens to his words, and does not reveal her amazement. A pirate’s son. A _female_ pirate’s son. With such a sense of honour as to refuse to abandon his fellow escapees. She cannot account for a boy like this.

And nor, it seems, can Barbossa.

With a tense look on his face, he turns to Carina, and snarls.

“Well, and what about ye? Have ye anything important to reveal regarding yer identity, then?”

Carina blinks, and shakes her head. Subconsciously, she touches the diary tucked inside her jacket – still there. But she doesn’t know if it’s waterlogged. No way to check in front of this band of pirates. They’d see the ruby and take it in an instant, and ruin the pages too.

Barbossa sighs, and it makes him sound old. He runs a hand over his face, clearly irritated.

“Tell ye what,” he says, raising his voice. “Let’s get out of the bay before we decide on anything. Might be these young people could be of use to us. Throw ’em in the brig!”

The pirates cheer, though less heartily now that there will be no murder, and make quick work of yanking Henry and Rosemarie out of the boat. The two that are holding Carina still wait until the others are aboard before hauling all three of them down to the brig. The darkness blinds Carina after the brightness of the daylight, and she can smell the dank, sea-soaked smell of old wood. A few sputtering candles light the tiny room they are thrown into, before an iron cage-door is swung closed behind them with a clang.

It takes a few minutes for one of them to speak. After the pirates leave, laughing raucously at their prisoners and intimating that the three of them are _very_ pretty (Carina flinches away from them,) Rosemarie sinks down onto the floor, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes. Henry stand awkwardly at the bars, holding onto them helplessly, as if he is unsure where to go from here.

Carina sits against the opposite wall from Rosemarie, and sighs.

“Well, I suppose we ought to make a proper introduction,” Henry says, turning.

“We already met,” Carina says, raising her eyebrows. “We were running for our lives, if you recall.”

“Well – yes, but – we were rushed. Let me try again. My name is Henry Turner,” he says, with an awkward little bow.

“Carina Smyth,” Carina replies, waving a hand.

“Rosemarie,” Rosemarie says, “just Rosemarie.”

“A pleasure to meet you both, mademoiselles,” Henry says, gallantly.

“The circumstances could be improved,” Carina murmurs.

“At least there are no British soldiers here,” Rosemarie adds. “Except for you, Henry.”

“I wouldn’t go that far – they did attempt to execute me for mutiny, so I would say I am a disgraced ex-soldier, actually.”

Carina frowns. “You sound remarkably accepting of it.”

“My mother was a pirate king, once. I only joined the navy for the chance of finding Jack Sparrow.”

“A pirate king? And that’s why Barbossa hasn’t killed you yet,” Carina says, connecting the dots. “He fears retribution from her.”

“That, and my father is the captain of the Flying Dutchman.”

Carina cannot help it – she bursts into a peal of laughter.

“I had the same reaction,” Rosemarie says, shaking her head. “But no – I’m inclined to believe him. He has knowledge of magic beyond your average sailor.”

“But – surely, you understand that the magic is not real?”

Silence falls. Carina feels as if she has mis-stepped – but no, no. She knows she is correct. Rosemarie and Henry glance at each other. With a growing sense of disbelief, Carina’s mouth drops open.

“Oh, I can’t believe it. I’m trapped with a couple of superstitious fools,” she huffs.

“Do not be so disrespectful,” Rosemarie says, sharply. “You are an ignorant woman.”

“Well, that’s the first time I’ve ever been accused of _that_.”

“What she means is – Carina, I know it might appear strange to you, but there are things you can’t understand. Powers beyond human imagination. Curses – witches – gods.”

“Superstitions,” Carina says, rolling her eyes.

“I –” Henry stops, in apparent disbelief. “Did you not – _see_ her?!”

He gestures to Rosemarie, who crosses her arms, looking unimpressed.

“See what?”

“She did magic before your very eyes! She brought the soldiers to their knees!”

Carina waves a hand, frowning. “A trick of some kind. Quite clever. I’d love to learn it. But just a trick.”

“How _dare_ you,” Rosemarie hisses, suddenly, and Carina shrinks back, despite herself.

“Rosemarie –”

“No! No – I will not sit here and be insulted by a stranger who knows nothing! I nearly killed myself getting us free and she says I did a trick! Like a street performer!”

“Well, it certainly was not magic!”

“Ladies, please,” Henry pleads, stepping closer.

“You stupid little girl,” Rosemarie says, leaning forward with her teeth bared. “Count yourself lucky I exhausted myself for your sake. And that I have a more important mission before me than defending myself to you.”

“Oh, and what is that?” Carina finds herself trying to get the last word – something she thought she’d outgrown.

“Finding Jack Sparrow,” Rosemarie says, leaning back against the wall. “And Henry will be joining me in that endeavour. I wonder who will ally himself with _you_ when you are free of this ship?”

And to that, Carina realises, there is no answer. She has no allies, or friends. She has no one at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhhh any comments are appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> No one cares about this but me, but if you did give it a whirl, I would love to hear what you thought! Rosemarie is what happened when I took the concept of Sansha, made her a little younger, and gave her a personality beyond "scary magic woman."
> 
> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)


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